Psychobabble
by SirenAlpha
Summary: England was not involved in the Cuban Missile Crisis. So, why was Russia calling her? Innacurate history, Fem!England. Eventual Ringland.
1. Chapter 1

"How did you get this number?" England asked, irritated, into her telephone. She was always very defensive about her telephone number, and she had just changed it. She didn't want people knowing her number unless she had given it to them, and she had not given her number to Russia. It sent a shiver down her spine just to think about how he had acquired it, especially with the Cold War hanging over every nation's head.

"_It's not important. I can come in, da?"_ he asked over the phone. His voice was crisp through the line, unaffected by her harsh tone. England remembered him well from their times as allies in the World Wars. She hadn't heard pleasant things about him since.

"I can't get my head round you," she murmured, half aware of what she was saying, glancing out of her front windows, "Of course you're not coming over. Snap out of it. You're not making any sense."

"_You couldn't be more wrong_," he said softly before the line clicked as he set down the phone.

England bit her lip, and hesitantly set down her phone. This country was in the middle of a crisis with America over Cuba. What was he doing on her land, talking to her? He could potentially blow the world to bits, and he was in England?

She could only fret over the reasons for a few seconds before the doorbell rang. She straightened herself, and walked determinedly to the front door. She knew she would find Russia on the other side. She pulled her heavy door open, and, indeed, the towering man was on her door step. He stooped to enter, and only gave her a nod before walking around her into the living room and settling himself onto her couch by the telephone.

She wanted to kick him out, but knew she no longer had the power to. There were certain disadvantages to no longer being an empire. This was not something she wanted to be a part of, and she didn't want hostile negotiations in her living room. "Dial America's number," he ordered.

She walked to the phone, resisting the urge to be obstinate the entire time or remark sarcastically upon his knowledge of her number, but not America's. With her finger on the rotary she gave him a once over. She could see the strain in him. He and America were racing full tilt while the rest of the world just watched on the sidelines. She knew what that was like, and couldn't honestly say she missed it. "You want to help me, da?" he asked, without it sounding much like a question and didn't look at her, "I can tell. During the war…I could see it. The way you acted…" He trailed off.

"I never gave out these signs," she snapped, "Anything I did during the war I did to end it. If your definition of ally is different than mine, I misunderstood-"

"You misunderstood no meaning," he interrupted. There was no anger in his voice, but it felt passive aggressive. She glowered at him.

"Snap out of it," she repeated, brusquely dialing America then handing him the handset, "I'm not falling for this one."

He took the handset from her, and held it to his ear. She turned from him, and sat in her nearby armchair. She sat down gracefully, smoothing out her skirt as she did. She crossed her legs primly, causing the skirt of her dress to fold around her legs perfectly. She watched silently as Russia explained the situation to America. She could hear America's voice, but not what he said. Russia's face gave away nothing.

Eventually, Russia fell silent. He sighed, and held the handset away from his ear. "Hold," he told her by way of explanation.

He finally glanced over to her. She refrained from flinching. "Why is love surrender?" he asked. England had grown used to Russia saying or asking random things. Asking a philosophical question during a break in near atomic war negotiations, however, was new. She raised an eyebrow, and he continued, "If love is surrender, then whose war is it anyways?"

England did her best to control her blush. Russia had no idea, but to her it had seemed like he had made a reference to the Hundred Years War. She and France had almost gone too far then. She coughed, using it to cover her embarrassment, as that particular time in her life was not something she tried to remember. "It's everyone's, I suppose," she answered as truthfully as she could.

Noise returned to the phone. Russia placed it against his ear once more. Negotiations were begun again. "Do just what I tell you, and no one will get hurt," he warned.

England stood from her chair. She was no longer interested in this. She walked to her kitchen to make some tea, for herself and her guest. She could still hear Russia talking as the pot boiled. She poured the hot water into a more decorative tea pot, and placed in the appropriate leaves to let it steep for a few minutes. She took two of the matching tea cups, and filled them three quarters of the way full. She set the two cups and the pot on a tea tray already equipped with sugar and cream. She left out the biscuits, feeling that they were unwanted. Russia might be an unwanted guest, but it was better to be a good host than discover the consequences of doing otherwise.

She lifted the tray easily. She walked slowly and carefully back to the living room. As she passed the door frame, Russia focused in on her. He almost seemed to be glaring at her. "Don't come any closer," he warned her, "Cause I don't know how long I can hold my heart in two."

England nearly dropped her tray. She set it down on the nearest level surface, hands shaking. She remembered all the times she had separated her heart, leaving the heart that made her a nation in England, and carrying the heart that made her a person with her. She had become a pirate once, and had almost killed Hitler before the war. The disagreements between those two halves of herself generally resulted in pain when a side won out. Russia the Man was fighting with Russia the Nation over her, and one of them at the very least wanted to harm her. She began sipping at her tea to calm herself as she watched Russia from where she stood as he continue to talk into the phone.

Russia held the phone away from his ear again. "Soon Mother Russia will have all of the world," he said plainly, "It seems almost too easy."

England bristled at his remarks. It had taken her so much to just get a quarter of the world. Why should he get it all so easily? He had atomic bombs, of course. "If you think that it's so damn easy, what do you need me for?" she quipped peeved and jealous.

"You're what makes it easy," he said with a smile.

"It's not worth it," she admitted both to him, and herself. She knew the costs very well, and to be left with this was not as satisfying as she wished it to be.

"How could it not be?" he asked, looking slightly confused.

"You won't understand unless you've gone through what I have. It's very-"

"It will be worth it," he stated, convinced of his own words.

"Just look at the state of you," she said, gesturing to him, "Snap out of it, you're not listening to this. And just for once, could you let me finish a sentence?"

England was feeling more irritated by the second. Nations often ran over each other with words. They were creatures of actions, not words, but they were entering a new era. England knew that now was the time when words were desperately needed to be used, and she was good at using them. It was clear, however, that not many other nations were in agreement.

America squawked on the phone again, and England was ignored. Russia talked for a few minutes, but softly so England couldn't hear. His eyes never left hers. Another warning slipped from his lips, "Make no sudden movements, and no one need get hurt."

England was becoming more unnerved by the second. "You're making me nervous," she whispered almost to herself in an attempt to laugh her anxiety off. It didn't work in the slightest.

Russia pulled the phone away again. He gave her another smile, "This will be good for you."

She scowled, and set down her tea cup. "If you know what's good for me, why would I be leaving you?" she remarked grumpily, referring to them separating as allies.

She headed for her library, not wanting to spend another moment with the man. She walked a little too close to him. He latched onto her wrist with his free hand, and tugged her towards him. She tripped over her own heels, and landed heavily and squarely in his lap without evoking a single sound from him. He kept his hand clasped around her wrist, and lifted his arm over her head to let it rest on her waist.

America was on the phone again, but this time she didn't care. "I've had it up to here," she hissed at him, while she tried to wriggle and pull herself free, "Don't ever try that again."

He ignored her and spoke to America instead. He stopped. "Why are you so quiet so suddenly?" she asked, tilting away to try and see his face.

"Go on," he said, just louder than a whisper, "I bet you're just dying to try me."

She had no idea if he was talking to her, or to America. He grinned eerily, and placed the phone against her ear, "Say hello to America."

She glanced up at him, trying to figure out what this would do for him and if it she should go along with it. "America?"

"England?" he asked back. He sounded frustrated and exasperated at the same time.

Russia pulled the phone away before either of them could say anything else. "We have an agreement, da?" he asked.

Seconds later, his grin widened. "Good,"

He set down the phone, and released England. She leapt up from his lap, and nearly ran into her armchair. He took a step towards her. She straightened to her full height, but was still pitifully shorter than him. He reached out a hand and cupped her chin. His leather gloves were cool against her skin, but his touch was light. "I told you it would be good for you," he said, slowly stroking his thumb across her cheek, "You just saved the world from nuclear annihilation."

He leaned down, and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. He pulled back, and walked himself to the front door. He pulled the door open, but looked back at her, "Come join me anytime to celebrate."

He exited her house, and shut the door behind him. England glanced out her window to see him disappear from her line of sight.

That day, the Cuban Missile Crisis ended.

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><p>England was visiting Russia to show him a song she had recently found. He wanted to walk and show her around, again. She decided the song could wait.<p>

He was bundling her up. She had not worn enough for his cold as she always underestimated it. He continued to treat her like a doll, but, once again, she didn't mind it.

He took her small, feminine hand, and led her outside. He kept her close to him, and he buffeted some of the wind from her. He told her at least one thing about every building they passed, and she enjoyed just listening to his voice. An hour or so later, they stopped on a bridge. She figured this was as good a time as any. She pulled out her iPod, and handed him an ear bud. He accepted the bud, and stuffed it into his ear as she put in her own.

She played the song. It sounded like a conversation they both remembered clear as day from between the lines. There was only one part missing. He turned to her and asked with a smile that could almost be described as cheeky, "So, what do we do now?"

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><p>I really like the song of the same title by Frou Frou, and I thought it described Russia and the situation well. The other character, of course, had to be England as the song is English. England was made female because it wouldn't have worked had he been a guy. I hope you enjoyed, and please review! I don't own anything but the plot, just in case you were wondering, by the way.<p>

I also wanted to say I'm considering writing a second chapter to this, either paired with another Frou Frou song, or a regular chapter. Let me know if it's worth it for me to pursue, and please review!


	2. BachBreak

So, here's the sequel chapter set to Bach/Break by Jonathan Rhys Meyers from Russia's point of view. It starts off before the last chapter started. Please enjoy!

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><p>Russia didn't think he was any different from the other nations. He was at their little get together, but he made sure to stick to the edges of the room. It felt too clustered in that space, with the air warm from the guests' breath and body heat even with the French doors to the outside wide open. He made his escape and left the room for the cold outside where the snow fell. He turned around to look back at the lit up windows and saw through one of them America leaning over to whisper something in England's ear. Russia wasn't any different from the other nations.<p>

He breaks. He'd broken bones. He'd broken military lines. He'd broken morale, and he'd been broken. He borrows. He'd borrowed men. He'd borrowed weapons. He'd borrowed time, and he'd borrowed lives. He lives. He'd survived winter. He'd survived war. He'd survived the revolution, and he'd survive this war too. He loses. He'd lost battles. He'd lost men. He'd lost his family. He might've only misplaced his sanity. He prays. He'd prayed to God. He'd prayed for his people. He'd prayed because of his guilt and most of all he prayed for the times he'd felt hollowed. When it felt like he'd broken and borrowed and lived too long and lost too much and prayed too little and so it had been his blood used to fill out the red in his ledger. He is dead, and yet he remained, above all else, confused.

He finds her. On that beautiful night whose date he can't ever remember because that wasn't what was important. At that other ball stuffed with skirts, suits, and royals, but only two nations. He'd caught only the fleetest of glimpses of her that night, and he'd been chasing after her ever since.

He hadn't been doing anything different from all the other nations, yet here he was, stuck outside an open door, and he knew no one would come to get him. He'd never get a second bet. America and England were inside, giggling and talking right in front of the window as if they were alone. He knew why she was so important. She knew how to lead the world on her own, but he and America didn't. They could only stand so tall by pushing against one another, propping themselves up. He knew what his enemy was doing as he stood there and watched them while grinding his teeth. America was forcing England to be the support so that it'd be easy for him to win. The world was becoming centered on England, and the idiot hadn't even told her yet.

Russia was concerned by how focused on her he'd become. He'd only met her a century ago, and how he wished she was only make believe. That one infamous nation he hadn't yet met and knew only by name. Instead, he'd met her, became allies with her, separated from her, and was now fighting for her support against the one man he couldn't beat. He glared at the oblivious nations' heads. He wanted her to take him back, and do more for him as an ally than she ever would for America.

He both wanted to look away from them and storm in and force himself between them. He swallowed thickly and clenched his hands to prevent himself from doing anything rash. He needed to behave before all of these people. He felt like he was drowning beneath the pressures of being a world leader and the eyes of the nations and the races against his enemy, and once you're there they're never gone. He was being left alone in the cold, watching as America got to bask in the warmth of her company, and he was becoming obsessed with her as he lost her more. He was breaking outside that open door as he could hardly watch England seemingly hand over his chances to the American.

He was being washed away by a tide of opinions, beliefs, speeches, convictions, and he needed England to catch him before there wasn't anything left of him to hold. America, however, needed her to do the same for him. He knew he would lose that fight when the moment came. He left. Unable to watch anymore, he had turned around and walked towards the driveway through the grounds. His boss had caught sight of him leaving, but he ignored his calls for him to returned. As he pulled open his car's door, he promised himself he'd find her.

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><p>Then, a few months later, he'd gone and invited her to his house for a celebration. He was surprised to see that she had actually accepted his invitation and showed up at his house. He poured the drinks and they sat down together, and he swore he could feel his heart racing.<p>

"Why me?" she asked, "Why was I what stopped the Missile Crisis?"

"I had needed to protect my people and America would only negotiate if I had something he thought worth negotiations," he explained, "He chose you."

She looked irritated then. "Do you mean to tell me that if you hadn't involved me, he would've been alright with blowing up the whole world?" she asked, indignant.

"Presumably so," he answered truthfully, downing his glass before the talk got any farther.

She slowly and hesitantly took a sip from her own glass, and he couldn't help a small smile at the sight of her face as she reacted to the flavor. "So," she said as she carefully set her glass down a ways from her person, "When you're not saving the world by invading my house, what do you do?"

He shrugged. "I break, I borrow, I live, I lose, I pray, I'm hollowed, I'm dead, confused, and yet I find you," he murmured, obliging the urge he had to reach out and run his fingers through the length of her hair as it hung in front of her shoulder.

She blushed and kept her eyes on his hand rather than on his face. He took her glass and held it in front of her face. "We haven't celebrated if you haven't drunk all of this," he told her.

She took the glass back from him.

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><p>By Missile Crisis England means the Cuban Missile Crisis (when Russia tried to give Cuba missiles so the US freaked and we got the closest to nuclear war we've ever been even though the US had missiles in Turkey, but the American public didn't know at the time that we had missiles in Turkey) which Russia ended in the last chapter.<p>

I sort of feel bad as I've kind of turned the Cold War into a fight over England. Also, I may or may not write more for this depending on whether or not I find a song that fits.

Please review!


	3. Pressing Flowers

Alright, here's a third installment. There might be a fourth, so heads up. This is based on the song Pressing Flowers by The Civil Wars if you want to listen along.

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><p>She picked up her things and headed towards the exit. She walked slowly. She had nothing to rush to and let other nations pass her. "England," she heard from the person she least expected.<p>

She turned around to see Russia walking determinedly towards her. She hadn't spoken to him alone in ages. She remembered well the last time they had talked, and she was certain that there were things still left for them to say. He was no long the Soviet Union. They could, perhaps, say them now. He stopped in front of her and spoke just loud enough for her to hear, and no one else, "Meet me in the garden, where the weeds grow tall, down by the gate."

"Why there?" she asked, matching her volume to his. She knew where he was talking about.

"I got a secret that I might tell, but anywhere else," he shook his head, "It'll give me away."

He left, whispering nothing more to her. She wanted to tell herself that she wasn't going to meet him, but an hour or so later she made her way to the back of the garden. She forced her feet through the tall, grass-like weeds, letting them brush up from her calves to her knees. She found him there, leaning against the gate. They sat down together, in the rough grass with their backs against a rusting metal gate, silent until they found words to say. They talked of the end, and he told her the secret for what next.

They stood and he kept her for only a moment, warning her, "Whatever you do," holding an index finger to his lips, "Keep it with you."

She nodded, promising to keep their secret to herself.

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><p>The group was gathered in France, in an old and ornamental house. Their bosses were discussing things in a cluster while other politicians milled about and England felt bothered by their attention. Russia suddenly stood beside her, and she looked up at him, waiting to hear what he had to say. "Meet me on the back porch where ivy climbs, we'll sit on the swings," he whispered to her, just over the sound of the music.<p>

He left, and after a number of minutes, she followed. She walked calmly to the farthest corner of the house, where the porch with ivy and an abandoned set of swings remained, untouched by the owners. She opened the door to see him sitting with his back to the bright orange setting sun. She took the vacant second swing, facing the house though she wanted to soak up the colors of the sun and watch the ocean behind them.

They talked again, letting their words drip like streams out to the sea. He talked about her, and she talked about him. They kept their voices low, and she left first as the sun had already ducked beneath the horizon. He reminded her, "Whatever you do."

She responded, "Keep it with you."

* * *

><p>She pulled her mail from her mailbox and was surprised to see an unusual package. It was from Russia. She returned to her kitchen, setting aside the other envelopes on the counter, and pulled open the package, carefully and inch by inch. She revealed a pressed red rose beneath a pane of glass. She pressed her hand flat against the cool glass and thought the gift was perfect. It was her rose, and he had pressed it for her.<p>

Their meetings were this. She and he, well, they were just pressing flowers. Moments of time and secrets and danger pressed between them until they were dry enough to store not under a pane but in a page. They were dying, but at least they were theirs.

* * *

><p>She was in a hotel lobby, sitting alone. She had come for the poetry, but had found she couldn't care for it. Russia had stood behind her, but had not whispered some vague place she recognized, only mentioned an iron bed. He had been gone for five minutes before she had realized that must be the name of his suite. Hers was Carnation and his Iron Bed was two floors below hers.<p>

It was the first time she had entered a place, met him, that was his, the place where he slept. They chose not to use the chairs and lay side by side on the bed. He recited to her poetry, not the poems they had come for, but the poems that were his. He let those words cascade over her head and down her body then whispered the meanings to her lips so she could taste them. She was lulled by him, but the hour sharpened her, reminding her to flee. Whatever they did, they had to keep it with them.

* * *

><p>She stared into a photo, waiting for it to give her a meaning or at least tell her the name of its contents. He appeared behind her without warning. He leaned in close, his warm breath against her ear, and whispered, "Meet me in the tintype from long ago."<p>

He had given her a riddle, and she nodded to accept it. She wanted to lean back against him, but he was gone before the thought even fully formed. She found the oldest tintype in the exhibit. It was of a small stone church, all alone on a hill. The plaque beside it told her where he was and she left as soon as she had memorized it. The little church was not as far away as she thought it would be. The place had been abandoned with plants growing in and half its walls fallen away. He was at the corner furthest from the road, not visible to anyone who could amble by.

They were in the grass again, laying but face to face. Before they could speak words, she reached out for him. She lightly ran the tip of her finger down the bridge of his nose then accidently caught the tip of his lips and chin. He wasn't bothered by this. He smiled. His fingers first found her scalp, weaving through her hair and cradling her head. She felt too warm as he dragged his hand and her hair back towards him, running his thumb along her jaw. Her hair fell across her face and they both moved to push it back, his larger hand over hers and the tips of his fingers at her temple. She dropped her hand, letting him push her hair back, and he traced the edge of her ear.

He moved in close. She placed the ends of her fingers on his jaw beside his chin, wondering if it was to lead him to her or push him away. She thought they should kiss, but was so afraid if they did. His thumb suddenly swept slowly across her lower lip, as if he was thinking the same things she was. He leaned in so that the tip of his nose touched hers. She slid her fingers down from his jaw to hook the edge of his scarf. He was looking at her in a way he hadn't before, and she supposed she was doing the same. She let her gaze drop to his lips.

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><p>When the sun removed its warmth, they had to leave. He held her close and, for a moment, returned the sun. "Whatever you do," she repeated.<p>

"Keep it with you," he said breathlessly before laying his hand just beneath her collarbone, just above her heart, "Please, keep it with you."

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><p>That is that. Thanks to KorosuKa for betareading. I hope you enjoyed reading. Please review!<p> 


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